


Man in the Mirror

by Achilles_Heel



Category: The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan
Genre: Other, Spoilers for TBM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25984303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achilles_Heel/pseuds/Achilles_Heel
Summary: Apollo reflects after the Tower of Nero.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 58





	Man in the Mirror

Man in the Mirror

My name is Apollo, and I’m a god. 

I smiled, breathing in the fresh June air of Camp Half-Blood. It felt good to be a god again, and even better to know what it was like to be human. I had certainly lost a lot as Apollo, but I think I lost even more as Lester. Jason Grace, for instance. The smile melted off my face, but it didn’t melt because I was awesome and radiant this time. 

I pitied Jason Grace, but for more reasons than the obvious. He, like me, was the son of an immortal tyrant, who cared nothing for their kids until death. I hated the fact that that was me before I became Lester. Jason was my brother, I felt, but not on the godly side. On the human side, because I shared so much pain with him. Because he made me understand. Remember. 

I took another deep breath, satisfied at the fact that after an eternity the rotten smell of Python was out of my nostrils. Nero had been defeated as well. For once, I wasn’t compelled to write a ballad about how he had been slain, thanks to my efforts. I wondered why that was. Was it because I actually had to put in the effort? Because it wasn’t glorious and radiant as I’ve murdered people in the past? 

I think that in my heart the reason I didn’t write some epic to belittle Homer all the way from the Underworld was that for once in my life, it was more than me. Greater. Despite having written and inspired the greatest works of mortals and muses alike over the millennia, the phrase ‘greater than me’ tasted funny in my mouth. But it was greater than me. The fact that so many demigods, my children, and others had given themselves, maybe not in life and death, but in soul and heart and spirit moved me. 

I looked around from my position in the rocker on the porch of the Big House. A satyr had offered to feed my grapes by hand a few minutes before, but I declined. I was surprised to find that after all my trials and tribulations, I still found it hard to say no. The only reason I had declined was that I thought to myself, ‘what would a human do? What would Jason Grace do?’ I kindly thanked the satyr, and I even held out my hand and offered my name, as a mortal would do. I didn’t expect him to bow and cower before after learning who I was or even if he recognized me on sight for once, and it was refreshing.

That might have been due in part to my appearance. I was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. A simple pair of sandals. My complexion was fixed, but it was unnatural to witness flawless skin and perfect abs after a while. My hair was blonde. The only thing differentiating me from my son, Will Solace, was my shirt. Unlike most other campers who sported the blinding orange camp shirts, I was garbed in the album cover of one of my most influential sons. 

I looked down at the album cover that rested on my chest. ‘Bad 25’. I thought about Michael Jackson in the capacity of a father/son relation for the first time in a very long while. While I’m sure most of the demigods thought I was flexing my ability as a music aficionado (being the god of music tends to let me do that), I, for once, delved past the surface.

I was thinking of a certain song from that album as I created the shirt and slipped it on. “Man in the Mirror.’ That morning, I had looked in the mirror for something other than to admire my reflection. I looked past the shallow looks. All of my mortal lovers in the past had one thing in common. Physical beauty.

I never thought there was anything more; gods are shallow inside and out, conceited after millions of years of anger and rage and bullying. It never occurred to me that mortals even had the capacity for something on the inside. I never stayed long enough to disprove that theory. If only I did, I might’ve understood sooner. Remembered. 

I might’ve not been Athena (thank me for that), but I truly had discovered that demigods are the very best the Fates have to offer. The beauty, talent, skills, and powers such as gods like myself combined with the hardships and pain of mortals allow them to be great people.

No, not great. Great was something they were born with (sue me), but they learned to be good. It was remarkable, really. Thousands of demigods lived no longer than 20 years old, and yet in that time, they learned how to be genuinely good beings. Compared to gods, who were ancient and great and powerful, but miserable and spiteful nonetheless, it was humbling. I thought of my distant (both physically and emotionally) nephew, Luke Castellan. 

In the period of one battle, he overwent more change than any Olympian had for centuries. He turned from villain to hero. I checked my schedule mentally. I couldn’t see my godly relatives doing that anytime soon, but I decided to alter their plans. They would learn, but I wouldn’t subject them to what I went through. 

I appreciated the slap to reality, but no-one should have someone taken from them, even if that person knew the risks and pursued nonetheless. As I sipped lemonade and watched Nico slap Will for saying McDonald’s was unnutritious, I relaxed. I also changed my mind. I think I would write a ballad, an epic, about my journey. But it wouldn’t be triumphant. It would be about my trials...Yes, I think I’d do that. I’d have to move some things around for time concerns (I had to roast some gods and burn every encyclical about insane Roman emperors on Olympus), but I could definitely write it. 

My smile broadened as I saw a familiar face approaching me. Percy Jackson was smiling as well, though there was a hint of nervousness in his sea-green eyes. I rose and poured a second glass of lemonade, offering it to him as he climbed the stairs. 

“Hey Apollo,” Percy said, sipping his drink and sitting on the rail of the Big House, a thing that I believed Chiron wouldn’t be too fond of, but the centaur was busy pulling blunted arrows out of his tail. I was tempted to laugh at the pitiable sight that was the archery of the younger campers, but why should I laugh? Theirs was much better and harder than mine, they had to learn it. 

“Apollo? You good, man?” the son of Poseidon’s voice jolted me back to reality. I grinned and leaned back into my rocker. “Yes, of course. What can I do for you, Percy?” I queried. Percy shifted uncomfortably. “I actually need advice,” he confessed. My grin expanded. “Are you looking to woo Annabeth? Because I have some fabulous ideas—”

“No, no thank you, I’m good on that front, Apollo, but really thank you,” Percy assured me. “I, um, actually wanted your advice. About writing. I finished my senior year, and I was accepted into the university in New Rome. They asked to see some of my personal experiences, in writing, before they let me into this one class, and I was wondering if you could help me with it.”

I was so touched that I, the god Apollo, almost spat out my lemonade. “Of course. Do you have any idea of how to begin?” Percy nodded and the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. “I do, actually,” he said as he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his shorts pocket. He handed it to me, and despite the spelling errors (poor dyslexics, I tell you), I read the first line with overwhelming joy. 

“Look, I didn’t want to be a half-blood.” I grinned up at Percy and handed the piece of paper back to him. “I can definitely work with this.”


End file.
